In the spirit of the day, I decided to go the extra mile and dress up a bit. I’m not wearing a clown suit or anything, but I busted out some of my old dark shrouds and my fangs (custom fit, thanks to which I got a few extra points on that goth quiz) and wear them to work today. Slipping into them and doing up my eyes felt like putting on an old pair of jeans.
I figure today I can get away with it, so why the hell not? It was amazing to see how many dead souls were on the metro this morning--and I’m the one looking like a vampire. Stares, glares, and open-jaws abounded. It kinda felt like I was back in High School (or, Dale, in that Charlotte Mall). But this is Halloween for crying out loud. I can’t believe those sheep couldn’t step out of themselves for one goddamn day. You have been given the chance to have fun on an otherwise humdrum Wednesday. Today, I’m in the right. I’m the normal one. You’re the freak. You’re the fun-vortex. You’re the person who’s so tragically boring that I pity the person who has to sleep with you.
Jesus, I wish I was this confident back when I wore this stuff every day…
Being Halloween and all, I am reminded of what I was doing this day last year. Mickey and I were in Europe, heading from Brussels to London for the last leg of our vacation. We checked out of our hotel and they allowed us to put our bags in their luggage closet while we went downtown to do some more shopping and waited for our train. After a few hours of meandering around the Grand Plaza and surrounding area, we went back to the hotel to pick up our stuff and get on our way.
We go back to the luggage closet only to find out that “safekeeping” has a very loose meaning since Mick’s smaller duffel bag has been stolen. Of course it’s the one that had the emergency cash, the gifts he bought for his niece and nephew, miscellaneous toiletries, and most of his souvenirs. He filled out forms and listed the contents in the hopes that this would somehow get reported to the police and solved. He handled the situation much better than me: he was cool headed and collected, while I cried like a baby thinking about how some asswipe who probably just wanted money ended up with a bagful of children’s toys that meant something to someone but were useless to him. After all of the rigmarole with the bag, the Hotel management, who had refused at first to even acknowledge that the bag was stolen, let alone assume the smallest amount of responsibility for not locking their storage room, begrudgingly paid for our cab ride to the station.
We managed to get a train to some town in France where we were supposed to pick up another train to Lille-Flanders (the place where the Chunnel train left for London) but for some reason, everything was going wrong, we couldn’t find our train and it got to the point that we thought we might be spending Halloween night in some no-name city in France. The train arrived, however, and took us right to Lille.
The Lille-Flanders train station is a monument to bad architecture everywhere. It’s a huge building with what I’m guessing 100-foot ceilings—-but the catch is, the glass walls only go up to about 88 feet of that 100, leaving approximately 12 feet of open space between the walls and the ceiling. It was a very windy, very rainy night, so the wind and the rain blew right into the gaps. The station has space-heater towers set up here and there and all of the travelers were flocked up close to it, but after a while, even that became useless.
We had barely eaten all day and of course, there was not an ATM in the building. We had a handful of Belgian Francs left that we had to pay the astronomical exchange rate to turn into French Francs before being able to use them at the only food place open (which promptly closed one hour later). Our train was scheduled to leave at 8:30-ish. It got cancelled due to severe flooding in the South of England. The rest of the trains were delayed. Everyone on the cancelled train had to reschedule for one of the later ones. We got put on the 9:20, which was delayed until about 11:45.
So we sat. With no frog-money in our pockets, no open food places even if we did, no heat, open walls blowing wind and cold air in on us. As a fine icing on this suck-cake, they were playing Cher’s Believe album on repeat. We heard it three times; I swear to all things holy, it was three times. I took the opportunity to paint my nails, Mick started making log cabins out of the sugar packets. The people around us stared at us like as if we were standing on the tables spouting out lines from Oedipus. Even the family on their way back from EuroDisney, laden down with Mickey Mouse toys and balloons and sweatshirts and stuff thought *we* were the sight to see.
By the time we got back to England, Halloween was technically over. I don’t think the day was ruined, since it was one of the most interesting and memorable adventure-days of my life. But I am always looking for new and improved reasons to despise the French, so I can say with disdain, The French Ruined Halloween.